


This Is What Irony Looks Like

by mebh



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt Roy Mustang, Hurt/Comfort, Ishbal | Ishval, Romance, Swearing, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mebh/pseuds/mebh
Summary: During the height of the Ishvallan conflict, Roy Mustang is wounded in a skirmish. Standing between the lost and broken soldier's recovery and his return to the front is an unconventional doctor with a great sadness of her own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF and with four chapters here, I am now determined to finish this beast! Deleted and cleaned up, and now with wholly British English so ' instead of ", etc.

'I swear to God. One shot, and his arm plain popped out of the socket. It was still moving, guys. It was! Floppin' around like a fucking catfish.'

'They don't rot like our guys, fella. They don't. They sort of... disintegrate. Those fuckers are made of sand.

'Made of it! Weird kind. These desert bitches have the weirdest fucking titties I've ever seen.'

That was the nature of the banter on the way back from the field. Cockerels strutting their mouths off to hide their personal terror; the plummeting adrenalin come-down after a thick engagement. So thick that enemy soldiers had gotten close enough to take bites. Mustang had found two bodies locked onto each other, frozen in their final warring moments. From even three feet away, it looked like they were lovers. That's how close it got at times.

The small platoon were bundled into four rickety old jeeps that bumped and sputtered their way way back across the barely traversable terrain. It was a shock to everyone in the detachment, this mode of transport. Usually the alchemists rode in style. Mustang must have done something to piss someone off.

'No style today, hey major?' said Corporal Connolly, the boy who claimed to have killed twenty Ishvallans on his first operation. Maybe he did, but tens of numbers didn't mean much to anybody these days. Certainly not with alchemists around.

Mustang glanced up from his report. He didn't mind the interruption so much. After all, he'd just spent the last five minutes or so drawing the same circle over and over again. A nice big one in red. In the middle there was a figure: 157. Their kills for the day.

He was fairly certain he'd planned a witty reply, but all that bubbled up was a very weak smile. The corporal understood and didn't say another word. Everyday, it seemed Mustang's reception amongst the others was becoming more and more complex, contradictory even. He was loved, in a manner, but God, he was hated something special too. Someone obviously wanted to put him in his place; not that the young major was in any particular rush to be the Golden Boy.

The jeeps continued for a further rough and bumpy twenty minutes, the same coarse banter filling the otherwise silent desert. At last, they reached a small bluff at the edge of the Safe Zone. The forward most vehicle stopped. Bringing up the rear, it took a while for Mustang's vehicle to catch up to the others.

"What-?" the alchemist began, but was cut short by the first whistle of mortar fire. It fell wide of them by a good ten feet; one of the benefits of fighting an enemy unaccustomed to the heavier stuff. 'Go! Move!' he shouted to his driver, while waving his hand madly at his communications man to issue the order to the other jeeps. The first jeep's tires spun in their place before it shot off and disappeared over the crest of the hill. The men around him were stumbling into position, rifles cocked over the battered and scored metal of the jeep's doors. A bullet struck the spare tire on the back of the vehicle with a _pop!_ More whizzed over head, red-hot seekers streaking the blue sky like lost comets.

The hinterlands surrounding the SZ always carried a little drama. There were mines and there were commando units; there were totally un-policed guerillas and there was a network of tunnels that stretched for miles upon miles beneath them. Yes, Amestris outgunned Ishval, but it was hard to beat an enemy in their own back garden.

A rain of bullets pinged off the side of the rearward jeeps and had every man ducking his head for cover. The vehicle in front of them lost control and swung off the track and onto full desert. A couple of rear gunners tumbled out and landed heavily on the sand. Bullets now fell on them from both sides of the road and the smaller of the two thrown men got caught between the eyes. A good shot.

The dead soldier's comrade rushed to him, hoisted him on his shoulders in one heave and was cut down a second later; first by the knees then by the chest. Cartilage flew, but after mere moments, the dead lay still. Mustang cursed and scanned the desert for the gunners. Under the glare of the sun, Ishvallan tunnel hatches and rough linen uniforms were nearly impossible to spot. If he could get a lock on a hatch he could cook them inside their rabbit warrens. It wasn't hard for him. Lord, he could make a soup out of an entire battalion in a small space like that.

His jeep hit a huge rock and bounced impressively in place. It sent him tumbling up the jeep and into his driver, and that's when he saw it: the long, black cylinder of an RPG launcher. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his head off the vehicle's decoratively tiny and near-useless fire extinguisher, and tried to recapture the location. It didn't take long. A thing like that, so unlike the desert yellows and blues, stood out like a flag. He raised his hand and snapped.

'Major!' Kelsey screamed a warning that came too late.

The uncanny ribbon of fire spiralled up and came undone as twin bullets struck the alchemist on the thigh; one higher up, on the inside. That one put him on the floor of the jeep. _No no no no no no no no_ , his mind raced and his left hand hurried to check for damage. What felt like a tidal wave of blood spilled down his leg and into his too loose boot. But he was an officer. He was the commander of this merry little beat-up gang of grunts. His cock had to wait. He staggered to his feet, gripping the edge of the jeep with his bloodied left hand and snapped again. He was spot on. The grenade exploded in the barrel and a black cloud rolled up from the mid-horizon. As the jeeps sped on towards the Safe Zone, his men continued returning fire, taking only one more loss. Not much for the day: ten in total.

Mustang hissed and finally bent at the waist to check the damage: a puncture a few inches above the knee and the other just South of his penis. He rolled his eyes back and thanked _somebody_. Hearing laughter, he forced them open again.

Tomkinson was smiling at him. His mouth was, that is. In contrast, his eyes looked terrified... looked a million years old (looked like every other soldier in that hell).

'Fuck, sir,' he laughed. 'I thought they'd shot your dick off!"

Speeding past the towers at the edge of the SZ, Mustang sat back to let the medic get to work on his leg. It wasn't bad, not by an alchemist's standards. No major arteries had been hit and if there were any complications, every single grunt on the whole mission knew there were different ways and means for alchemists than for them. Dark ways... secret ways, and always that weird-ass, Dr. Marcoh.

Mustang smiled, wobbly though it was. 'Me too,' he said, and glanced down at his exposed leg and the deeply bubbling wound. He laughed then, too. First a little puff of air with barely any noise behind it. Then he really got going. He laughed until tears started coming, from him and his men; the titters and giggles stuttering with each bump of the jeep. Connolly, leaning forward on his rifle and laughing, was sure his safety was on. He was as scrupulous as they came, and his safety was always fucking on. But that old adrenalin got the better of everyone sooner or later, and sometimes after a fight you were too busy pulling your briefs back out of your ass to remember the basics. The jeep hit a rock, Connolly's rifle fired and the lone bullet struck the fire extinguisher.

This is what irony looks like:

Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, screaming as he tries to scoop foaming, white phosphate from his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Evening in the desert: the plummeting temperature, the rocketing fear, the red horror of the setting sun. With the disappearance of daylight, the boys climbed out of their man-suits and waited for death. In the sun, they were king. In the sun, they could see the flak jackets and helmets of their comrades read: _Ain't no hell like the hell I bring_ ; _Worst motherfucker in the 31st_ , _I fucked Jenny Jonson_. In the sun, they knew where to point their rifles; their personal hurt bringers.

Nighttime was the Ishvallans' domain. Nighttime was guerillas spilling out from tunnels dug into the middle of a dorm. Nighttime was Ishvallan boldness: red-eyed soldiers rushing against towers as if they had one hundred times the manpower. Nighttime was boy sentries with slit throats, poisoned water supplies, and control-devices strapped to the backs of kidnapped dogs, eager to return to their masters. Nighttime in Ishval was every terror every little boy or girl had ever dreamed of.

And here she was: the good doctor, peeling ruined gloves from her hands for the hundredth time that day. It started with the sergeant from East City finally losing her battle against a rattle in her lungs; dying with a gasp. She'd liked the kid: a girl who'd enlisted because she was the last of her sisters and didn't want to work in the factories like the rest of them. From there, there was any number of walking wounded, a couple of boys cut up good from a road mine, and a throat wound. She closed her eyes a moment before thrusting her hands under a rusty tap. She started pumping the water vigorously with her right foot. Last throat wound- a father of twenty-something - she'd been forced to triage, certain that he was beyond saving. She couldn't even be sure he was clinically dead when they put him in the body bag. There were just _so_ many. So many priorities. All of them: priorities. Hagget was a real war-comic meat grinder.

Then came the alchemists and salvation had never looked uglier. God damn Bradley and this cursed war.

The sound of an approaching jeep had her shaking her hands dry in a hurry.

'Khalid!' she called to her assistant. 'Khalid, bring out some fresh iodine would you?'

'Ma'am!' the man answered.

The doctor slipped on a fresh pair of gloves and took a deep breath. _Here we go_ , she told herself.

The tent flap was flung inwards and a mass of shouting, panicking blue rushed inside. It took the doctor a few seconds to puzzle the scene out, but now she saw their cargo: a young man, writhing and bucking in their grasp. He was certainly energetic. A good sign at least.

'Okay, lads. What have we got here?' she asked. No one paid her much heed. She was about to try again when one of the men lost their grip and the wounded soldier dropped to the floor. He floundered like a banked fish, howling and scratching at his eyes. The men continued shouting and grappling for him. She spotted his leg then: drenched with blood. _Okay,_ she thought.

She grabbed the arm of a largish corporal and spun him to her. 'Get these men in order, soldier! I won't have chaos in my surgery!'

The corporal blinked at her. He had that sad, wild look to him; not knowing where he was or what to do. He looked utterly absent from the moment – isolated by his panic. He was shoved from behind by one of his comrades and stumbled against her. He barely registered it at all. God damn this cursed war! God damn Bradley!

'Corporal!' she shouted, righting him. 'Corp-'

'He's an alchemist,' he whispered, scared. 'Oh God... oh God...'

She understood at once. Alchemists were the _absolute_. One alchemist was worth the life of an entire battalion (proven not even a month before during the siege at Muezzel). Here were four boys who'd just let one of the most expensive, indispensable pieces of Amestrian might get damaged.

She pushed past the corporal, and into the thronging men. 'Khalid! Gunshot wounds to the leg, and- eye-damage? Eye-damage!' she shouted. Her assistant answered and started prepping a cot. 'Hold him here, like this- like _this_ ,' she said to another soldier. She checked his leg wounds: not bad, considering. 'You take him to Marcoh?' she asked, pressing against the alchemist's shoulder to pin him to the floor.

A blond of maybe thirty nodded at her. He spoke like he was drowning. 'He wasn't there. He's in the field somewhere. He wasn't there- he  _wasn't there_ -'

The doctor shook her head. 'Never knows when to stay put.' She swung a leg over the bucking alchemist and began prying his arms from his eyes. 'Khalid! Fetch me the chloroform! And some saline solution. A cold towel too!'

'Ma'am!'

'You!' She pulled at the dumb corporal's arm. 'You're big: sit on him.'

Mercifully, the man did as he was told. That fairly limited the alchemist's movements. He was only a small thing.

She scooted round to the alchemist's head and once again pulled at his arms. The cuffs of his uniform were soaked through with tears. He was wearing one glove; the other was shoved in the pocket of one of his men. He moaned and mewled, his rubber boots scoring lines on the rough, hastily tiled floor. 'What happened to his eyes?' she asked the blond.

He swallowed. 'Fucking fire-extinguisher. Sorry, ma'am. Sorry... I-'

'I've heard worse. Man in the cot behind you calls me "cock-sucker" every morning.'

The blond private looked like he was going to throw up. Still struggling with the alchemist, she gestured as best she could for the man to get the hell on with it.

'Bullet struck the canister. It went off right in his face. Found a shard in his cheek. Fuck. He loses an eye and we're all _fucked_ -'

'Alright,' she consoled, just.

Finally, she got one arm away from the alchemist's face. She pinned it with her left leg. After that, the right wasn't too difficult. His eyes were scrunched kitten-tight and when the second glove came off, he _screamed_.

'Come on, soldier,' she grunted as she popped his right arm under her right knee. 'Who are you...?' she mumbled, reading his badge upside down. _Mustang._ That was the Flame lad from Central City. Shit. Colonel Grand would be on her in the morning, Marcoh at his side most likely.

'Major! Major Mustang!' she prompted, leaning close. Khalid arrived with the chloroform and some morphine for the alchemist's leg. 'Major- stop-' He jolted fiercely, grazing her chin with his forehead. She grabbed his face with both hands: her thumbs to his eyebrows and fingers curling round his jaw. Like a roaring gale had suddenly dropped; he stilled.

'Is he-?' one of the men stuttered, totally afraid (whether for himself or for the major was unclear.)

His eyes ghosted open: utterly blank. He was blind, temporarily at least. His whites were anything but. Yellow pus had formed at each tear duct and some hung in clumps on his lashes. Panting, his black, black eyes darted in tiny, frightened movements.

'She's a goddamn horse-whisperer,' one of the men behind her said.

'Major, can you hear me?'

He swallowed with some trouble. Awkwardly, she manoeuvred his head onto her lap.

'Can you hear me, Mustang? What's his first name?'

'Roy, ma'am.'

'Roy... Roy Mustang?'

Khalid handed her a wad reeking of chloroform. She nodded back at her assistant who moved off to rig the IV.

'Please,' he said in a voice deeper than she'd expected, torn as it was.

'It's okay,' she said. She smoothed one dark eyebrow with her thumb.

'Don't let them take my dick,' he sobbed then, and in her whole life she had never heard the absurdity, cruelty or irony of war summed up better than in that one insane request.

She pressed the wad to his mouth. 'Still there, champ,' she said, and he was out.

God damn this cursed war.


End file.
